


if this ground gives way i just hope that you'll catch me

by saccarines (orphan_account)



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Comfort, Established Relationship, Implied Aquaphobia, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-23
Updated: 2014-03-23
Packaged: 2018-01-16 17:15:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1355353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/saccarines
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You’re not a goddamn machine. Just because the rest of the world puts you on a pedestal doesn’t mean you have to do it to yourself.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	if this ground gives way i just hope that you'll catch me

**Author's Note:**

> title from [this](http://thelittlestcrane.tumblr.com/post/80539937076/if-this-ground-gives-way-i-just-hope-that-you); most of the SteveBucky things I'm writing are WiP for chapter fics, so I wanted to post something nice and quick. well. nice-ish? 
> 
> Movie!verse because I have a problem that starts and ends with Sebastian Stan, but taking liberties of course.

The lights are all off when Bucky finally drags his feet through the front door, save for the luminescent glow of the television casting shadows across the floor of the living room. He takes a moment to lean against the door, feeling the ache and pull of his muscles, overworked from the mission he’d finally closed. It had been a long, hard two weeks in the Danakil Desert tracking down a SHIELD scientist gone rogue, and all Bucky wants to do is pass out.

The thing is...Steve isn’t usually awake when Bucky comes back from a mission, if he’s even there. They may share an apartment, but the chances of them being in the building at the same time are always slim. Steve is there, though, slumped on the cushions of the couch with his arms folded over his stomach. He’s squinting at the screen, just slight enough to belay his own exhaustion.

Bucky pulls off his boots, dropping them to the ground loud enough to catch Steve’s attention. His reaction is slow, when he flicks his eyes in Bucky’s direction, and his voice is groggy when he speaks. “Hey.”

“Hey yourself,” Bucky folds his arms, angling his body so he can get a look at the screen. “What’s on?”

Steve looks back at the screen, shrugging without his usual grace. “It’s about the war.”

Bucky groans, sounding a lot more like his old self than he cares to admit – Steve seems to bring that out of him, whether he’s trying to or not. He moves forward, feet falling heavy on the ground until he sinks into the open space next to Steve. Their legs knock and slide against each other, but Bucky doesn’t let it distract him.

“Steve,” he shakes his head, “you _hate_ war documentaries.”

“I couldn’t sleep,” Steve shrugs again, squinting at the television. “It was the first thing on.”

Bucky mutters in Russian – and a few other languages - under his breath, reaching across Steve to fish the remote off the table. He changes the channel to something (anything) else – it doesn’t matter what – and rests back against his corner of the couch.

“What kept you up?”

Steve shifts, hunching his shoulders in an attempt to make himself smaller, or more inconspicuous. Either way, it doesn’t work. “Nothing, really.”

“Come on, Steve.” Bucky shifts around until he can nudge his foot against Steve’s thigh. “It’s not like I don’t know a thing or two about nightmares.”

For a moment, Steve looks like the wind has been knocked out of him. He always looks like that, when Bucky mentions things like nightmares and death tolls.

“Come on,” Bucky repeats.

Steve furrows his brow, and his arms tighten just enough to let Bucky know it’s not just lack of sleep making him like this.

“There was a mission,” he says quietly. “A kid got tossed into the bay. I was the closest one to him.”

“Oh, god, Steve,” Bucky frowns. “I’m sorry-”

“No, he-. He’s not dead.” Steve sighs. “Tony saved him.”

“Okay,” Bucky says slowly, “then what’s the problem?”

“I was _right there_ ,” Steve narrows his eyes, blinking rapidly. “I was right there and I didn’t jump in after him. I _couldn’t_.”

Bucky makes a small noise, hoping Steve takes it as encouragement to continue. He doesn’t say anything when a few of Steve’s fingers wrap around his ankle.

“There was just so much water, and I-.” Steve is flushed, from embarrassment or from shame. Then, he just seems angry. “I froze. All that water, and I remembered being on the plane, and I _froze_ , and it could have cost someone their life.”

“Steve,” Bucky is careful to keep his tone devoid of pity. “You’re just human. You’re allowed to be imperfect.”

“Captain America _isn’t_ , though.”

“You’re allowed to be scared of something, Steve.” Bucky says. “Hell, I’m scared of all kinds of shit.”

“You are?” Steve has the audacity to sound like he’s suspicious.

“You know I am,” Bucky mutters, taking back his ankle. “The point is that even _Captain America_ can have fears.”

“But-”

“No buts, Stevie.” It’s almost comical, how familiar this argument is, despite it being more than seventy years since they’d had it. “You’re not a goddamn machine. Just because the rest of the world puts you on a pedestal doesn’t mean you have to do it to yourself.”

“I _don’t_.”

“Then stop beating yourself up for having flaws.” Bucky kicks him, gently. “Punk.”

Steve glowers at him for a moment, but the expression lacks any real hate. He slumps back into the cushions, letting the fabric take his dead weight. He stares at the television for a while – late night cartoons, apparently – eventually reaching out to take Bucky’s ankle again.

“I leave for a few days, Rogers,” Bucky shakes his head, hoping to cajole Steve into a better mood.

“I’m so tired, Buck.”

The response isn’t exactly inspiring, especially with the way it sounds like Steve doesn’t just mean tonight. It’s something Bucky understands, though.

“I know, Steve.” Bucky snags his fingers in Steve’s collar, pulling him into his chest. It’s an awkward position for a moment, until Steve turns to curl up into the embrace, tucking his head under Bucky’s chin like he’s not several inches taller – like they’re back in Brooklyn, with nothing but the covers and each other to keep themselves warm.

“I figured,” Steve sighs, “you’d get it, at least.”

“I do,” Bucky reassures him. “I mean, you’re kinda worrying the hell out of me, but I get it.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Steve,” Bucky rakes his metal fingers through Steve’s hair, “you got nothing to be sorry for.”

 _Don’t apologize for needing me_.

“Still-”

“No.”

Steve grunts, pressing his face into Bucky’s neck.

“Hey,” Bucky says, “what’dya say we take a week off? We can take Stark up on that lake house offer he’s always griping about. See if we can’t get you in the water a few times.”

Steve is eerily still against him, so Bucky just keeps running his fingers through his hair until he relaxes. It’s not much, but it’s something – especially for them.

“Yeah,” Steve replies, voice still quiet. “Okay.”

Bucky hums.

“Thanks, Buck.”

“You’ve done it more than enough for me,” Bucky shrugs, going for nonchalant. “Least I can do.”

“You’ll tell me about your nightmares sometime,” Steve doesn’t make it sound like a question, but Bucky knows he’ll never pry unless Bucky says it’s alright for him to do so.

“You don’t want to hear about my nightmares, Steve.”

There’s a noise of disagreement pressed against his throat, but Steve is slipping, falling headfirst into something resembling sleep now that he’s not alone.

Neither of them have ever been good at sleeping without the other.

Bucky shifts on the couch, getting comfortable. Steve is in his arms, a fair trade for a bed (a _better_ trade). He doesn’t think he’s going to be moving much until morning.

Bucky is alright with that.

 


End file.
